Shadows of the Past
by Emmithar
Summary: People called him a hero; he called himself a fool. What really happened in the Holy Land after the Saracen attack?
1. Chapter 1

**Shadows of the Past**

**By: **Emmithar

**Rated: **T

**Disclaimer: **Robin Hood BBC and all recognizable characters do not belong to me sadly

**Summary: **People called him a hero; he called himself a fool. What really happened in the Holy Land after the Saracen attack?

**A/N: **Another short story; it'll only be a few chapters. Basically an insight on the reason Robin had to return home from war. Thanks goes out to Kegel for the beta

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**Chapter One: **A Masked Saracen

They all started the same. These dreams—nightmares; his mind filling with screams and cries, the lingering odor of blood and sweat. He was trapped in a fire, burning under the rays from the harsh sand, and above from the glowing sun. No matter that he couldn't even breathe; stopping, even for a moment, could cost him his life. He blade was a blur of motion, hardly to be seen, favored in close combat. His bow, on his back, just within reach so that he could fire an arrow if called upon. For now, his sword would have to suffice.

Metal clashed upon metal, intermingling with the sounds of cries, shouts of alarm. The livestock they had were growing wrestless, pulling at their leads as they bellowed, trying to find escape. There were more cries…Robin opened his eyes, heart pounding in his ears. There were cries…and he was no longer dreaming.

He could see them, figures just outside of his tent, through the veiled opening. Metal sounded against metal, he could see the blows being exchanged. Without missing a beat he pushed himself to his feet, hand hastily closing around a bundle of arrows. There would be no time to properly arm himself.

"Much!" He called out for his squire even as he ran, trusting for the man to hear him. "Saracen raid! The king is under attack! MUCH!"

He trusted for his bow to work, for the arrows to find their mark. Robin knew that he was deadly with a bow; knew that he could kill a man with his eyes closed. One arrow, two…and another. Each one finding and hitting its mark without as much as a hesitant pause. A quick glance across the battlefield told him what he needed to know. The group of Saracens were not many. They could easily be defeated…

When the hand first landed on his shoulder he didn't think. Often a times war was loud; one could not even hear himself scream even if he burst his lungs trying to do so. Often a times a motion was used, the slightest of touches to direct or communicate. And so he assumed it was one of his men, perhaps even his squire, who had finally caught up with him.

Pain blossomed in his side, cold steal cutting through his skin, sliding through his body. He could feel the sword, biting into his flesh, could feel the blade moving inside of him. It hurt worse coming out, the breath being stolen from his lungs as he collapsed unto the cold sand below.

A Saracen. Robin bit his lip, fighting against the pain, raising his head to see the man running across the sands. The King's tent. He was headed for the King's tent. Robin gripped the bow tightly, trying to battle the pain, his hand trembling as he strung another arrow, his last. The shot had to count, he could not afford to miss.

"Master!"

It struck wood. Not flesh. Close enough to make the Saracen pause, to realize how close he had come to death. He glanced back, but it did not divert him for long. Robin felt his body seize with pain, forcing him to the ground once more, a free hand pressing against the wound as though it could chase the agony away. The wound was deep, painful; perhaps deadly even.

"Master, you're wounded…"

He had never heard Much's voice so grave before. The man had dropped to the ground beside him, had touched his wound, had felt the blood. There was a lot of blood…

Robin shook his head, fighting for the breath he needed. He couldn't give in, he couldn't give up. "Get help," he breathed, gripping the sword in his hand. The sword that had been brought by Much. "The King's tent, now."

The king…he was their first priority. Talks of peace had been close, there had been a cease-fire. No one had been suspecting an attack, and there had been a celebration earlier in the evening. Robin had forbidden Much to drink, he had felt uneasy. Robin had also cautioned the king to take care as well. A cease-fire was not the same as a peace treaty. But the King had only raised his goblet, smiling at him.

'_I hear your words, Locksley." _And then he had finished his cup. Robin had said nothing after that, couldn't have said anything after that. After all he was only a servant to the king. His job was to protect the man, not order him about. And now, Robin knew, the king was sleeping in his tent, perhaps soundly, lulled in succulent dreams brought on by the wine. Very likely, the king was not even aware of what was going on, making him defenseless, a perfect target.

Much still hadn't moved, simply sitting there with a torn look on his face. Robin felt the anger, the pain building up inside him as he slowly drew himself to his feet, one hand still pressed against the open wound. "NOW!"

Much nodded, scrambling to his feet and racing off into the distance. Robin was running as well, crossing the gap and slipping inside the tent, his heart pounding wildly. He had waited too long, had wasted too much time. It took only moments to kill a man, and surely the King of England was dead.

But the king slept on. The Saracen stood above him, sword poised, ready to strike. But he hadn't yet. Why hadn't he struck? Robin did stop to ponder, instead he thanked the Gods that had allowed for the briefest of indecision on the enemy's part.

"Your Majesty!"

Robin hoped to rouse the king, his heart beating a little faster at the sight of the slightest stir of movement. He swung his sword, knocking aside the intruder, driving him back, away from the king. Each strike he made with his sword sapped a little more of his strength, and each blow was failing to hit its mark. The Saracen was dancing circles around him, dodging each strike. But he was running out of room, and soon had to meet Robin's blows with ones of his own.

There wasn't much time left; Robin could feel his strength fading, and soon he wouldn't be able to fight anymore. He had to drive the other out, had to hold him off long enough until help arrived. The Saracen lashed out with the sword, Robin ducking it through some miracle, and coming up to strike with the butt of his, the handle knocking the other aside.

Again he drove the other back, somehow managing to grab hold of the man's arm. Robin lashed out with his blade, metal meeting flesh, a deep, superficial wound scaring across something…a tattoo he realized dimly. It had thrown him off guard, distracted him. Why the Saracen failed to use the opportunity to strike he wasn't sure. Instead the man fled.

For half a moment Robin almost went after him. But his side clenched in pain, a cry escaping his lips as his fingers dug into the wood. The sword fell from his hands as his knees buckled, and not even his hold on the post could keep him up anymore.

"Robin!"

The hands caught him before he could fall, easing him to the ground. The pain was there, sharper than ever, and it was hard to breathe. Each small gasp he drew only caused more agony, stealing what little air he had left in his lungs. He was distracted only momentarily as the flap of the tent drew open. He half suspected Saracens, coming to finish the job. His hand shot out to grab the sword, relaxing only when he could see that they were other crusaders.

"Master!"

Much was on his knees, by his side once more. Sir Daniel, the other crusader, could only watch as both king and squire held the man. How many other men had died that night Robin could not know. He would be one among many, he suspected. But he had done his duty, he had protected his king.

"The attack?" King Richard addressed the knight.

"Finished," Sir Daniel responded. "The Saracens are either dead or have withdrawn. I do not think we shall see them again tonight."

"The medic, then," the king demanded, a hand squeezing Robin's shoulder. "And hurry."

The man nodded once, departing in haste. Robin could only shake his head as the king turned to him. There were other men that would need help, others that had a chance…his wound…

"You will be alright," the king promised, or perhaps he demanded. He may have been the King of England, but even he could not control life or death. The thought stayed with him, Robin smiling, as he closed his eyes. A strange weariness was coming over him, and he felt more tired now than he had when first going to sleep earlier in the night.

"_Forgive me."_

They were the last words he remembered.

* * *

Robin winced as the needle pierced his skin. It was a strange irony. With the pain of the stab wound, Robin had been certain that there was nothing else that could match that kind of anguish. He had been wrong. Again he flinched, the small instrument looping through, and pulling the string tight. He shook his head at the offer of wine, grinding his teeth together instead. The last thing he wanted to show was more weakness; he had done enough of that already.

He couldn't remember what had happened in the King's tent. One moment he had been half-held on the cold ground, battling off an encumbering sleep he had first thought to be death. The next, he had nearly flown from the crude bed as the needle pierced his torn and ragged flesh.

Much, with the help of another man, had been forced to restrain him until he calmed. It had been embarrassing, becoming even more so the longer Robin thought about it. He turned his mind away, focusing instead on the needle as the physician toiled by his side. He couldn't see the instrument as it pierced his skin, but the simple fact that the man was working a steady pace helped Robin brace for each pull.

At long last it was done, earning a sigh of relief from Robin as he sunk against the cushions. His entire body ached, having been held tense for much of the process, and his head was still swirling with muddled thoughts and a growing headache. He crossed one hand over his bare torso, moving to feel his side. He could swear that the blade was still inside of him, cutting him open even further.

"No touching," the physician slapped his hand away. He was a gruff and angry man, but good in his work. "Keep it clean, and get rest. You'll be fighting again in no time."

"Certainly no time soon," Much muttered under his breath, quieting only when Robin shot him a stern glare. The man moved to sit on the edge of the bed as the physician left, leaving the pair alone.

"What happened?"

The man stared at him, confusion wrought over his face. "There was an attack…you were wounded…"

"I _know _that," Robin snapped, his brows furrowing. "How many did we lose?"

"Half a dozen?" Much suggested, shaking his head. "I have…haven't really had the time to ask, Master. You were my first worry."

Of course the man wouldn't know. Rather than gather information concerning what was important, Much had bothered to hamper himself with worry over his master. It was a touching gesture, but foolish. Timidly Robin raised himself on his elbows, working his way to sit up.

"Master?" Much asked warily, seeing what he was doing. "You should rest."

"Do not worry yourself," he shook his head, "I'll rest soon enough. I need a shirt."

There would be plenty of time to rest later, once he knew all was safe, and what exactly was happening. An attack like this, no doubt they would be relocating soon, or risk inviting another attack upon themselves. Robin preferred to know now, as opposed to later.

With Much's help, he was able to bring the fresh garment over his head. No one now could tell of his wound simply by looking, the fabric seemingly untouched by war and hiding the stitching. No doubt though that the others already knew, knew that he had let down his guard, and so earned his own folly. This wasn't the only thing that troubled him.

There had been an attempt on the king's life. That in itself wasn't so strange; this was a war after all. Yet the Saracen who had led the attack had managed to flee. He, Robin of Locksley, service to the King's Holy Guard, had failed to kill him. And there wasn't the faintest trace of doubt in Robin's mind that the man would try again.

The bright sun, the burning lands, greeted him as he stepped outside. He had forgotten how blistering hot it got out here. Shielding his eyes from the glare he surveyed the area, his gaze picking up the areas where the sand darkened considerably. There were many, but one in particular caught his eyes. The place where he had fallen.

Robin bit his lip, forcing his gaze elsewhere. There were several knights moving out in the daylight, busying themselves with graves, a pyre burning off in the distance. They had killed the lot of them, Robin realized, taking in the size. Most…but not all.

He turned away, walking with slow, shuffling steps, the unnerving pace set by his sore body. Much was shortly behind him, seen rather than heard, as they made their way across the camp. The flap to the King's tent was open, voices could be heard drifting out into the open. The arrow was still embedded in the wood. For a long moment he could only stare, his gaze hardening as he studied it. How had he missed?

He was a renowned marksman, he never missed. Yet when his aim had mattered the most…and now it was there for all to see. Yet another failure in the course of one night. He wanted nothing more than to take it from there, to tear it free from the wood and destroy all evidence. But he resisted, more from fear of not having the strength to do so and seeming like more of a fool than he already was.

Instead he ducked inside, waiting just at the entrance, his eyes adjusting to the change in light. Even after five long years here he hadn't gotten used to that. There were four others in there, the King included, as well as his closest of warriors, the remains of his private guard. Quietly Robin cleared his throat, catching their attention.

"Locksley?"

"Your Majesty," Robin gave him a small bow, hoping against hope that he would not be expected to do more. If he went to his knees, then Robin knew that he would not be able to get back up on his own. But the king waved a hand, dismissing him as he stepped closer.

"I must say that I'm surprised to see you up already, giving the nature of your wound."

"It is a scratch, nothing more," Robin encouraged him.

"You know, there is such a thing as dismissing a truth to save concern, and then there is such a thing as mendacity. I do believe you've surpassed both in this instance."

Robin grimaced, but then smiled, knowing that the king's tone had been light and amiable. At the invitation he stepped further into the tent, acknowledging a greeting between the other crusaders. There was Sir Daniel, as well as Sir Geoffrey, and two others that had recently joined the ranks to fight alongside the king.

A map was strewn over the table, easy to read in light, and Robin realized then that they were planning on leaving, as he first suspected. His first of several questions answered, he couldn't help but ask another.

"Do we know how many we lost?"

"Four good men," the king answered, turning back to the table. "A couple of squires. More wounded, though none as grievous as you. It pleases me to see you recovering so well."

Grievous…it was all he could do to suppress a snort. He had seen far, far worse on the battlefield, had found men so crippled that they had been begging for death. Men who had lost limbs, had suffered blindness and those who had been burnt by searing flames from fires so horrendously that they were no longer recognizable. Grievous…his wound was anything but.

"The damage is done," King Richard continued, looking back at him. "But it could have been worse. I owe you my life."

"Your Majesty," Robin shook his head, trying to disregard the praise. He had done his duty, what his king had asked of him to do. But at the same time he had failed. "The Saracen…he will try again."

"I doubt it, Robin," the man shook his head. "No one is fool enough to try such an attack twice. And now that we are back on our guard it is even less likely."

"Foolishness has nothing to do with it," Robin snapped, falling silent only a moment after. Sometimes it was difficult to remember who he was speaking with.

The king was silent, watching him. Then he nodded to the crusaders behind them. "Leave us."

"I speak out of turn, forgive me," Robin pleaded quietly once they were alone.

"And still you speak," Richard chided him. "There must be something on your mind that worries you. Tell me."

Robin drew in a breath, keeping his voice calm. "He was bold; smart. He should have stayed, and fought. He didn't. He ran so that he could come back another day."

"He ran, because he was a coward," the king countered. "He knew that he could not win against you, despite your hindrance. I never questioned my decision when I made you a private guard. You have proven yourself more than I had ever expected."

"I do think—"

"That is why there will be a feast tonight, in your honor."

"If I may speak—a feast?" He frowned. Only the night before they had had a feast, had eaten their fill, had drowned themselves in wine. Now the dead were paying, the wounded suffering. And yet the king wanted to do the same again just this following night? "Is that even wise?"

"Not only wise, but necessary," the man answered with a nod. "I would not be here without you, you have done not only me, but all of England a favor."

"We lost men last night due to our own folly."

"A mistake which we will not make again. Do not fret, Robin of Locksley. You have no need to worry. I ask nothing of you today other than that you rest. Regain your strength."

It was madness, but one thing that Robin knew of the king was when a discussion was over. Timidly he bowed, doing his best to not bend too far. Then with the same, slow walk, he left the tent. It was difficult, to not hold his side, to not wince in pain as he passed the other crusaders. Sir Daniel clapped him on the shoulder, a sign of a job well done, but it drew from him a silent hiss. Thankfully he had quickly been able to mask the expression, Daniel not even catching the flicker of pain across his face.

"I heard something about a feast," Much spoke quickly, moving up alongside him. "Is it true?"

Robin nodded, slightly amused by the grin on the other's face. Anything that involved food made the man happy. How wonderful it would be, he mused, to be so content with so little. The pair began walking, returning to their own small tent.

"It'll be good to have food again. I mean, it's not like we are ever without. Just good food…and twice in one week, it makes it very good. Will it be like last night, will we have meat again? I wouldn't mind some wine…if you…well, I guess not, now that I think of it."

Robin let him ramble, focusing on his words rather than the pain that was starting to eat away at him. Slipping inside he eased himself on the bed, letting out a grimace as he held his side. Much was standing there in the entrance, watching him, his words trailing off.

"Is there something I can get you, Master?"

"No," Robin shook his head as he laid himself down. There wasn't anything anyone could do for him. While he may have succeeded in one duty, Robin also knew that his failures could not go unmarked. He may have saved the king this one time, but he feared what the near future would bring.

"Master?"

He opened an eye, glancing at the other man with a raised eyebrow. "What is it, Much?"

"Are you going to rest?"

"That was my general idea," Robin muttered quietly.

"Ah, right," the other nodded. "But…what shall I do? I am not weary."

"Find something," he suggested, closing his eyes. "Just…stay away from Langley."

"I just want you to know that wasn't my fault," Much muttered quietly after a moment.

"I don't know, and I don't care. Just stay away from him."

The man agreed quietly before departing, leaving Robin alone in the shaded tent. It was warm, uncomfortably so, and would make difficult for any proper rest, but he was so worn Robin wasn't sure he had a right to complain. There were so many thoughts with him, troubling him, that his mind could not find the rest that he sought. And the most pressing of questions remained.

How had he missed?

**TBC**


	2. Left Behind

**Wow, love all the comments. Glad everyone is writing it. Yes, Robin is not the brightest of people at times, as I'm sure this chapter will prove even more so. :)**

**Thanks goes out to Kegel for beta. **

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**Chapter Two: Left Behind**

He wasn't going to stay there for long. It was hard enough to try and sleep during the night, let alone the day when heat blasted you from all sides. The few lulls he had fallen into had been besmirched with dark and chilling visions. In each one he had seen himself, poised and ready to fire. The arrow had flown through the dark…and it had missed. The Saracen slipped inside the tent, Robin following only to witness the murder of the king.

He woke abruptly, eyes searching around him in the afternoon light. A dream…only another dream. Or nightmare, in this case. And yet…it was half true. Even now he could see the arrow cutting through the night, could see it failing to hit its mark. They had been lucky; he had been lucky. The indecision on the enemy's part was the only thing that had saved the king.

With a groan he forced himself up, knowing that sleep would not come to him like this. Sitting, he couldn't help but look around the crude tent, his mind starting to wander once more. He saw it a thousand times, a thousand and one, in each he found himself doing something different. Of having awaken sooner, or perhaps heading straight for the king's tent instead of trying to fight them all, of keeping his guard up. Yet it all ended the same, each thought coming back to the knowledge that he had still missed, that he had let the enemy slip right through his fingers.

His gaze landed on his weapons, collected together in a pile, all of them clean and several arrows mended. Much had kept himself busy, Robin mused. Moving to his feet he gripped the bow, feeling the wood beneath his fingers. It was the feeling he loved, the curve under his fingers, the gentle twang of the string as he strummed it. He turned it over in his hands, bringing it up as though he were to fire, sighting in on the wall in front of him. After a moment, he let it drop, a sigh escaping his lips.

The memory was still with him, still taunting, dancing just beyond his reach. How much had he missed by? A foot? Perhaps not even that? Robin bit his lip, thinking it over once more. And the more he thought about it, the more he realized that he shouldn't have missed at all.

With growing frustration, he bent down, collecting a handful of arrows before turning to leave. There was no one around at the front of his tent, all of his comrades and other squires busy further down to his left. He took his leave to his right, leaving behind the others to their work as he crossed the sand and toiled up a hill. Normally the trek just stole a bit of his breath, but now he felt as though he were truly winded, like he had run, rather than walked. There was the smallest of inklings that told him this may not be the best of ideas, but it departed as his breaths evened out.

The heads of the arrows found their way into the ground, sticking out the sand as Robin knelt, his eyes narrowing. This was roughly how far away he had been. The pole he saw before him was nothing more than a forgotten chunk of wood buried upright in the sand, but it was draped with red and white banners that fluttered in the quiet wind. An invitation, or warning, to others, depending on if you were friend or foe. For today, it would serve an entirely other purpose. It would be a target.

He strung his first arrow, raising the bow as he drew the string taunt in one fluid motion. It went wild, Robin releasing far too soon as the pain took him by surprise. He grimaced, pressing the palm of his hand against his side, gritting his teeth as the sharp ache worked its way through him. When, and only when, the pain had subsided, did he try again.

This time he strung the arrow carefully, fingers curling over the end and holding it to the string. He drew slowly, grimacing as the pain began to return. It wasn't as bad as it had been the first time, but it was making it difficult to focus. Raising the weapon he sighted in on the pole, trying to will the slight tremble from his body. He let go, with a hiss of pain, watching bitterly as the arrow fell wide of its mark.

Without pause he grabbed another arrow. He repeated the motions, and again it missed its mark. He tried a third, and then a fourth, each ending in the same result. With his arrows spent he pushed himself to his feet, crossing the gap to where they had fallen. Another handful of arrows, another chance to try. He cursed himself, cursed his weakness, angry at the fact he couldn't hold his aim steady. Too much pull on the string brought the pain, and he was overcompensating because of it.

The sun blazed overhead, heating his skin and forcing a sweat. His breaths turned into heavy rasps as he tried again and again, hardly aware of how weary he was becoming. The wind kicked up the sand, stinging his eyes and clinging to his face, leaving behind a grimy residue. Yet his perseverance paid off, when at long last he heard the arrow thunk, the head burying itself deep into the pole.

A wry grin crossed his face, but it hardly lasted long. He should have been able to do that the first time, he reasoned. He should have been able to do that the night before. He was shaking lightly, trembling, his stomach turning as if to remind him that he still had yet to eat that day. Cautiously he glanced at the sun above, the golden orb having made its way across the sky. He needed to get back.

Grabbing the last of the arrows that remained he pushed himself to his feet. The slow, lumbering walk back to the tent was agonizing. His skin felt as though it was on fire, and he wondered dimly if he had ended up burnt. When he had first come the Holy Lands, he had tasted the cruelty the sun had to offer, as had Much. Their skin had turned first red, then a deep shade of brown, a color that was hardly known to them. Back in England the weather was wetter; there was no fear of becoming burnt unless one toiled under the sun all day. Here, there was really no other choice.

Robin made his way cautiously down the hill, moving an arm to wipe the sweat from his brow. His hair was soaked from it, trails running down his back causing the cloth to cling to him. He was more than happy to discard the shirt once inside the tent. He rolled it up into a ball, wiping his face as best as he could before tossing it lightly on the floor in the corner.

With a timid gesture, he pressed his hand against his stitching, wincing. He rubbed it briefly, trying to quell the itch that had started as well. Scowling at the discomfort he moved to fetch clean linen, clumsily shrugging his way into the garment. Once he was dressed he followed with a flask of water, first drinking, and then dumping the remaining contents on his neck and hands, washing away the rest of the grime.

He looked up as the flap of the tent was thrown back; turning his attention back after seeing it was only Much. No doubt the other would lecture him, and Robin wasn't in the mood to listen.

"Master, you're up….did you sleep well?"

He paused, turning to look at the other. So, he didn't know after all. Robin forced a nod. "Well enough."

It wasn't a complete lie, he reasoned, moving to sit on his bed. Yet it was better than trying to explain himself to someone who wouldn't understand. Much nodded after a moment, eyeing him carefully. Robin pretended to not notice, busying himself with cleaning his sword instead. Much had cleaned it before, and there was not much left to do, but it kept his hands busy.

"Right…" Much shook his head, as if remembering why he had come. "I mean, yes. The king would like to see you then."

"The king? What for?"

Robin darted a glance at him as the man shrugged his shoulders. He half wondered if someone had seen him up there, if they had informed the other. The king had suggested that he rest…but it had not been an order. Still, the king had been surprised to see him up and about earlier. He frowned, thinking it over.

"Master?"

Robin nodded, already moving to his feet. If the king requested his presence then it was best to not linger here. He paused only long enough to strap the sword to his side, relishing in the feeling of its weight by his side. He didn't feel so strange now. He was used to the weight of the chainmail, of always carrying his weapons. Now that he was stripped of his armor, he felt strangely light, but the sword brought him some comfort.

The bright glare of the sun greeted him once more as he passed through the tent. Squinting he kept his head down, following Much as they made their way through the camp. The wind had picked up some, a steady warm breeze that kicked up more of the sand. Robin was grateful when they reached the king's tent, nodding to Much before he slipped inside. Already it was much cooler in here, the heavy cloth that made the sides cut out most of the wind.

"Forgive me, Robin," the king addressed him shortly after he had entered. "I did not mean for your squire to wake you now."

"I…was already awake, your majesty," Robin fumbled with the reply, greeting him with a bow. He watched the other, curiosity spiking in him. Perhaps the king did not know…

"Yes, this heat is unforgiveable to sleep in during the night, let alone the day. At least you were able to rest a little."

"Yes," Robin lied, feeling a little guilty in doing so. It was easier with Much…but doing the same to the King of England felt a little like treason.

"I've spoken with some of the others," the man continued as if it was no big deal. "We've all agreed that it is time to move on. It is quite obvious that the Saracens have no interest in peace. We must keep trying. We'll depart south in two days time."

"I will be ready, your majesty," Robin nodded. It was a wise move, and truth be told Robin could not wait to leave this dreaded hellhole. He could not change what had happened, but he could leave it all behind.

"No, you will remain here."

"What?"

Perhaps with another his tone would have been considered disrespectful. But his time in the Private Guard had allowed him to grow close to the king, as well as given the king time to grow fond of him in return. He was one of the few, if not the only, that could speak his mind to the man without any real fear of repercussion. Sometimes Robin knew that he let things grow too informal, and it was those times, like now, that he cursed himself for it.

"Do not take offense, Robin of Locksley," the king responded with a firm tone. The same tone Robin knew he used when someone had crossed the line.

"The lot of us will depart on Tuesday. Some of those who were wounded will not be ready to travel by that time. My wish is for you to remain here, and at the end of the week, lead them south and rejoin us. I will send a messenger with details when we arrive."

He couldn't help but wonder if he was being punished. He had led men before, many times over, and so that was nothing out of the ordinary. But this would not be a battle he would lead; instead he would have to babysit a straggling group of survivors that most likely would let slip with too much wine and ale as soon as the king left the area.

He didn't want to be left behind. There were others that had been injured the night before that were already doing far more than he. No doubt they would be leaving with the king. And yet he was to stay here, and suffer with his intolerable weakness. He had never cursed himself as much as he did now.

"Can I trust you with this?"

Robin hesitated, at first wanting to argue. He could easily say no, say that he was not strong enough the lead them, and that he had to depart with the lot that would be leaving first. But then he would not only be seen as weak, but vain as well. He bit his lip to keep from sighing as he nodded.

"As you wish, your majesty."

* * *

Late evening found them in the center of the camp, almost the same place they had been the night before. The fire blazed in the center, chasing away the chill that had come with the setting of the sun. It was yet another thing Robin had not grown accustomed to. There never quite was a pleasant temperature, only extremes. The sun burned during the day, and the night could get cold enough to kill if it so chose to do. Even so, he longed for the night during the hottest parts of the day, and couldn't wait for the sun to rise once it had set.

"You're not eating?"

Robin glanced up from where he sat, finding that the king was watching him intently. He forced a smile, shaking his head to clear his mind of the troublesome thoughts. "Forgive me, my mind is elsewhere tonight."

"As I'm sure it is," the king replied, lifting his goblet. "Though there is no need to apologize. You are the guest of honor, after all. And so, there is no need to trouble yourself with worries tonight. Come, Robin, let us feast."

He didn't feel much like eating. His stomach was tense and uneasy, as though something did not agree with him. The bit of wine he had taken during the toast was already threatening to come back up, and it was all he could do to force his body to ignore it. Yet the king was insistent. Timidly he picked up the plate, fingers moving around bits of meat, bread…some other food that he wasn't quite sure of what it was. He was certain that he didn't want to know.

King Richard had turned away from him with a jovial laugh as he spoke to another crusader, their voices lost in the wind among all the others. Without thought he plucked some of the meat, and the piece of bread from his plate, slipping both inside his jerkin. He would eat it later, he reasoned. But at least it would appease the others for now. He set the half-empty plate on the ground again, taking another slow sip of wine as if to make a show of it. It was barely enough to wet his tongue, but he could see the king watching him again, this time looking satisfied.

There was nothing more said about that matter, for which Robin was grateful. He would neither be able to keep the act up, nor would he be willing to explain why he had taken measures to hide the truth from the king. Not to mention the humiliation that was sure to follow. His eyes gazed over the encampment, to where the other crusaders sat, the squires, the physicians, the scribes. He wondered how many of them secretly denigrated him, behind false smiles and fallacious words. He did not need to give them any more reasons to do so.

The last of the light faded, and one by one the others disappeared, happy to have feasted, but not caring why they really had been there. Even the king had long ago excused himself, and Robin was one of the few left, remaining where he had first accompanied the feast. The flames of the fire were withering, and the beginning of a chill was starting to creep through him.

Moving to his feet he bade pleasantries to the others that were still there, nodding to Much who hastily shoved another bit of bread in his mouth before following as well. He chattered happily as they worked their way back to their tent, slipping inside without so much as a pause. Much's prattle died down as he watched Robin change into his armor, draping the chainmail over his head carefully.

"Master? Surely you would rest more comfortably…without all that stuff?"

"I'm not sleeping, Much," he informed the other man, strapping on his sword and quiver. The latter proved tougher to accomplish, Robin having to readjust the strap so that it did not brush against his stitching. "Do not tell me you have forgotten about our watch?" Robin wondered, raising an eyebrow at him.

"Well, no," Much shook his head, frowning. "But I….you should rest. I mean, your wound…surely it isn't wise…"

"It is never okay to forsake one's responsibilities," Robin lectured him. "Especially not after an attack. This is the perfect time for them to try again, knowing they have killed some and wounded others. They know we have not had enough time to replenish our men."

He said the last part with more anger than intended, pushing past him and out into the night. It was a lie; they would be foolish to try another attack this soon. But Robin was starting to grow weary of others telling him what he should and should not do. Just because he was wounded, did not mean he was incompetent.

The air outside was cool, Robin taking in a few deep breaths in order to calm his racing heart. He was still angry with himself for his earlier failure, and now coupled with the knowledge that he was to be left behind, it only ground his nerves all the more. He knew all of the men that had been wounded; none of which were England's finest warriors. How did he manage to become the only one wounded within the king's private guard?

He turned as Much stepped up near him, the man clad now in his own armor, and armed as he was. There was weariness in the man's face that Robin had missed before. Of course, it made sense. The pair of them had gotten little sleep the night before, and Robin knew that the man had not taken any rest during the day. It wasn't a wonder to why he was so worn. He couldn't help but curse, shaking his head. His own arrogance had missed the small details that were around him.

"Much…you may take your leave."

Robin didn't have to turn and look to see the confusion in the other man's face. He could hear it well enough in his voice. "Master, surely?"

"You are of no use to me half-asleep," Robin snapped. He took a breath, his voice softer when seeing the hurt look in the eyes of the other. "I can take the watch alone. I'll wake you if I need you. Go and rest, my friend."

He could see the man hesitate, torn between wanting to stay, and longing for sleep. Robin gave him a nod, as if to let him know that what he had said was an order, and not a suggestion. Timidly the man nodded in return, and without another word he disappeared, leaving Robin to his own.

Slowly he made his way around the camp, taking in the sounds of the dying fires, of the animals bedding down for the night. There were still a few men awake as well, none of which paid him any heed as he walked by. Above him, the sky was dark, blanketed with a thick layer of stars, each one sparkling in the cold night air. Every so often, a breath of wind would come through, kicking up bits of sand, and rustling the flaps of the tents.

All of these sounds he had become accustomed to. He neither tuned them out, nor did he make them his main focus. Instead he listened for the sounds that shouldn't be there. In the dark in was difficult to see much; the fires lit the surrounding areas, but beyond their camp the land fell into a deep and uncomforting darkness. Out there, not even the shifting of shadows could be seen. Robin bit his lip, turning away as he moved on.

His side was starting to bother him again. A deep, almost painful itch was residing there and Robin rubbed it through his armor, wishing that it would simply just go away. There were enough reminders of what had happened already. He stopped then, his eyes narrowing as he listened. Something wasn't right.

Quickly he straightened, taking care to be silent as he undraped the bow from his shoulders, bringing with it an arrow. Notched, and ready to fire he moved around a tent, pausing by the thick pole for added protection. The footfalls were coming from just outside the encampment, and Robin could feel his heart picking up speed. If there was an attack this time, then he would not miss. That much he swore to himself. Part of him longed for an attack, so that he may prove himself once and for all.

Taking care to not pull too hastily, he drew the weapon into a firing stance, moving out into the open and sighting in on the man. A moment later he let out a breath, both relieved and disappointed as he lowered his weapon. If the other man had been frightened, then it didn't show. Instead he smirked, resuming his pace from where he had left off.

"You out of all people should know better than to skulk around, Langley," Robin warned him testily. "I could have killed you."

"I doubt it," the man replied nonchalantly, coming to a stop near him. "And I wasn't skulking; I was taking care of business."

Robin bit his lip, frustrated. Langley was never someone he cared for, but he tolerated the man mostly for the king's sake. Much had somehow gotten on the man's bad side, and since then Langley had taken it upon himself to make things miserable for the pair of them. "What business would that be?"

"What other business is there in this God-forsaken hellhole? Certainly not fighting Turks; no, instead we let them ambush us. It never would have happened if I had been keeping watch."

"Funny," Robin ground out. "I don't recall seeing you out there fighting when it happened."

"And I don't call recall anyone coming to wake me. That squire of mine, about as useful as yours. A blubbering fool who doesn't know one end of the sword from the other, or a battle for that matter. Shame the Turks didn't go after them, ey? Would have saved us some trouble."

"Do not speak of Much in that manner," Robin warned him coldly. He would not allow that sort of talk about anyone, least of all someone he considered a friend.

Langley only shrugged, as though none of it mattered, brushing by him. "I must say though, I'm rather surprised to even see you out here. I figured you would have gone whimpering to your tent by now, being injured and all. Isn't that what the weak ones do?"

"I'm fine," he snapped, watching the other man leave.

Langley laughed, turning back to him now. "Of course, otherwise you would not be out here. But since you are, you should really practice your shot. Or do you commonly mistake tent-poles for your enemies?"

There came no reply, Robin unsure of what to even say. He couldn't afford a fight, not among men that were supposed to be his comrades. Yet it took every ounce of his strength to keep his weapon lowered. Part of him wanted nothing more than to fire the arrow past Langley, to send out a warning. But with his aim as late, the slightest miss, and Robin would be responsible for murder. That was something he could not stomach, even if Langley did deserve it.

At the same time, Langley had pointed out what he was ashamed of the most. And if Langley knew that he had missed…the others would know as well soon enough.

**TBC**


	3. The Sparring Match

**Once again, want to thank all those that reviewed, I really enjoy reading all of your comments. I think we can all attest that Robin isn't always the brightest, especially when it concerns himself. That said, here is the next part, and I hope you all enjoy it.**

**Thanks to Kegel for the beta.**

**For those of you that asked about INE (It's Not Easy), that story will be updated either tonight, or tomorrow. **

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**Chapter Three: **The Sparring Match

He hadn't lasted the whole night. It was sometime in the early morning that Daniel had found Robin, half-awake, doing his best to stay on his feet. The other crusader had been kind, but had firmly insisted that Robin retire for the night. He didn't want to at first; if he had lasted this long, another few short hours could do him no harm. Daniel had convinced him otherwise, and Robin had taken his leave, too weary to even find relief.

It was strange; he could remember that well enough, but he couldn't recall the trek back to his tent. Or falling asleep. All he knew was that one moment he had been out keeping watch, the next, the bright rays of the sun warmly greeted him as they peered through openings in the tent. He was facedown on his bed, covered with a light blanket that had been tucked over and around his shoulders. His eyes searched about the tent, finding it empty save for a small plate of food.

He turned away, his stomach protesting at the sight. He was no hungrier this morning than he had been the night before. Cautiously he pushed himself up, the blanket sliding off of him as he moved to sit on the edge of the bed. The move made him feel lightheaded, and he stayed where he was, head hanging in his hands as he rubbed his temples. His head wasn't the only thing that was throbbing.

Carefully he raised one end of his shirt, risking a glance at his side. The area around the stitching had started to swell, his skin turning the faintest shades of red and yellow. The slightest brush against it was painful, his skin heated to the touch. It would need to be cleaned, he realized dully. The thought alone caused him to wince, and he let the cloth fall, rubbing his head once more.

It was then he heard it again, the sounds he had first thought to have heard when he had opened his eyes. He had listened, when lying on the bed, for it to repeat again, but all had been quiet, and he had dismissed it as another dream. But here they were again, the echo of metal clashing against metal. His heart skipped a beat, racing inside his chest as he reached for his sword. But something held him.

There were other sounds too, shouts and cries, but none of them from panic or worry. In fact…it sounded almost as if they were…spurring each other on. As though they were cheering….

Moving to his feet he pushed through the opening, his eyes adjusting for a moment before he could see the commotion. A smile crossed his face when he did, watching the two men spar. He had mildly wondered before on how long it would be until they started once again.

One of the greatest difficulties in war was keeping morale high during the lulls. When there was no battle, there were too many thoughts, too many regrets. A bit of activity, such as practicing with a bow, or even matching yourself in mock swordplay not only let loose pent up energy, but it helped to distract from the ills of war.

There had been drawn in the sand a plain circle, a makeshift border that even now was slowly being destroyed as the two men jostled about, wildly swinging their weapons. Around the circle itself, giving room for the two, were a number of men, some standing, others having made themselves more comfortable on the ground. Robin slipped in-between two of the standing men, watching with interest.

The pair was dead-even, straddling the center of the circle, dodging each other's blows. At the moment there was no clear winner, and no clear loser. Both men he recognized; a man by the name of Stern, and then Langley. Stern, like Robin, had been injured in the Saracen raid, a deep cut to his arm. Though not his strong arm, it still caused problems in carrying a shield, or even firing a bow. Right now, the only thing keeping him from losing was his size.

Robin knew that he was different. Most men of war were large, bulky in muscle and drove off of raw power and strength. Yet Robin was not, but where he lacked in size he excelled in speed. That was not only helpful in hand-to-hand combat, but he could loose an arrow faster than one could almost blink. Stern was small as well. Most of his work was with a bow, a fair reason why his injury had troubled him so. But Robin had to give the man credit; Langley was no easy opponent.

He was one of the largest men among King Richard's Private Guard. He was strong; very strong, but slow. Langley's movements were awkward, wide sweeping blows that Stern danced around easily. But Stern did not have the strength to drive Langley to the ground, or force the man from the circle. It was the only way a sparring match could be won.

"He's beat the last four men," the man near him spoke quietly. Robin turned his way, recognizing Mathew, another one of the King's Warriors.

"Langley, or Stern?" Robin wondered, though he could already guess.

"Langley," Mathew answered. "A bit brutish, but you have to consider yourself lucky he's on our side. Wouldn't want to fight a Turk like that."

No….he wouldn't. But Robin didn't voice that opinion. Strength alone did not make a warrior. You had to be cunning, daring…and perhaps a little mad. He smiled at the last thought, watching as Langley pushed Stern further back. The fight would not last much longer.

"How are you holding up?"

"Well enough."

"I had wondered," Mathew confessed quietly, turning so that his voice would be heard over the jeers from the others. "I heard that you are not departing with us at dawn tomorrow. I feared your hurt may be worse than what some of the others were saying."

So the others had been talking about him, and pray what where they saying? It was a gloomy thought, but Robin tried to not let it show. "The king wishes for me to stay behind and lead the others; I will rejoin you in due time."

"The quiet one, what's his name?" Mathew fell silent as he thought for a moment. "Rowan, that's him. An arrow got him in the leg. Even still can hardly walk. Imagine what that must be like."

He could imagine, well enough, and it was bothersome. Rowan, like it or not, _would _be traveling at the end of the week, whether or not he could walk. Even if Robin had to drag the man through the desert, they would stay here no longer.

"I know it will not be permanent, but it will be strange without you," Mathew continued, his eyes turning back to the fight. "Shame to say that I hope we run into no trouble until you're back with us."

"You'll do fine," Robin encouraged him. "All of you proved that well enough with the raid."

"It was you who saved the king, Robin. Or has the sun muddled your brains and made you forget?"

There was a bit of mirth in the man's voice, and Robin couldn't help but smile himself. There was a reason he loved the man; Mathew was at times all too much like himself. Nothing else was said between them, the cheer of the bystanders taking their attention elsewhere.

Stern had lost, kneeling outside the circle, breathing hard. He had put on a good show, but Langley, once again, had prevailed. And he was letting everyone know, strutting about in the uneven circle, sword held over his head as the blade gleamed in the sunlight. After a time the crowd grew quiet as Langley studied them, sword down now, waiting for someone new to try his luck.

There were many potential opponents, even now that after five men Langley was still there. Surely he was tiring, and a worn target was an easy one. But his success was not lost on the others, and there was no one who would step up to his challenge. Well…almost no one.

Without word, Robin stepped forward. There were a few murmurs among the crowd, none of which Robin could hear. He probably didn't want to hear them, considering they most likely were not encouraging in any nature. Bets were already being passed around, and Robin wondered dimly how many of them were being placed against him.

Langley managed a short huff, shaking his head as Robin drew his sword. "You can't be serious."

"You want to call it off already?" Robin wondered with amusement. Though his tired body would not protest to such a feat, Robin knew the man would never back off. It was the ultimate humiliation, the mark of a true coward, to step from a fight before it even had begun.

"You can't even fire a bow properly," Langley responded, "Can you even swing a sword?"

Robin moved, striking with his blade in one sudden motion for an answer. It caught Langley by surprise, the man hardly able to get his sword up in time. There were more murmurs across the group, and this time Robin knew where they came from. What he had just done was, without question, contumelious.

In any spar it was customary to agree to terms. This helped to avoided potential injury, and gave each opponent time to gather his senses before the fight commenced. With the first strike, Robin had propelled an angry match into motion. Langley was furious with the unannounced blow, and now was working to repay it with one of his own.

The first few blows were easily blocked, the next several dodged. It was awkward, at first, to fall into the rhythm, but Robin picked it up easily after that. Langley was coming at him hard, swinging his weapon in a large, deadly arch. Robin ducked, bringing up the butt of his sword, catching Langley in the side before spinning away. He could feel the air shift near him, his eye catching the glint of the blade in the sun as it came close to him.

The unnerving clash of metal sounded as their blades met, the force enough to throw Robin off balance momentarily. Langley swung again, ready to drive him back further, but missed completely as Robin dodged to his right, making a full turn around the advancing man. He kicked out, catching the man in the back and propelling him closer to the edge of the ring. Robin now had the advantage, and Langley knew it.

The next blow was fueled by wanted vengeance, the shock traveling down the blade and into his arms. Robin winced despite himself, pulling back rather than meeting it head on. The act gave Langley time to work his way back, and now they were once again even. They both had pulled away momentarily, hard heavy breaths filling the air as they paced cautiously, sword tips pointing towards the ground.

Around them the crowd waited anxiously, watching and wondering who would be first to start it up once again. Robin made no move, waiting instead for Langley to be the first to take the bait. And the man did, taking a full step to his left as a mock charge before turning right, and bringing the sword down. Robin pulled back, sidestepping the blow before moving in with an attack of his own. Again their swords locked, and again they pulled back, circling one another.

They must have been some kind of spectacle, for they had drawn a larger crowd. Robin did not risk chancing a glimpse, but he could hear them coming, could hear the voices relaying all that had happened. It was then that Langley moved again, striking not just once, but three times in quick succession. Robin was barely able to keep up with them, dodging the last to dive under Langley's outstretched arm, reaching up with his own sword at the same time.

There was a mild grunt from the other man, the slightest of pauses as Langley studied his arm where the crimson line was now starting to appear. A hush had fallen over the crowd as well as Robin waited, breathing heavily on the other side of the ring.

For blood to be drawn in a sparring match was not unheard of. Sparring in itself could be dangerous, if not deadly. But Robin had been the first to draw blood from Langley, and as a rule, between crusaders, they tried to avoid bloodshed altogether. It did not help in war if one was to wound and kill all of their own through mock play.

And so the wound, as superficial as it might have been, was yet one more reason that fueled this battle with rage. With a roar Langley charged, striking out with more force than he had been using before. The shock of the collision between the two blades dove deep into Robin's arms, causing them to go momentarily numb. Even as he side-stepped, Langley was moving, bringing up his knee in one, hard, fast motion.

It caught him in the stomach, dropping him to his knees. Robin could feel the air leave his lungs, his body screaming out at the same time as a streak of pain shot through his tender side and down his back. But he could not stop moving, Langley already advancing on him once again.

On hands and knees he propelled himself forward, moving to grab his fallen sword. He had to roll to avoid the blade that hacked its way into the sand, scrambling backwards on all fours as it came again and again. There were shouts now, from outside the ring, a mixture of voices calling for this madness to stop. If Langley heard he did not care, running forward with his sword out, ready to finish the mock fight for real.

Robin dug the top of his boot in the sand, kicking out with determined force. The sand hit Langley full on in the face, causing him to stumble quickly to a stop with a shout of pain. Robin used the opportunity to crawl to his feet, lashing out with sword and fist to drive the man back. The pummel of Robin's sword caught the man in the head, knocking him back a step.

Langley lashed out wildly with his sword, half-blinded by the grains of sand that were still clinging to his eyes. The blows were easy to avoid, and Robin kicked out again, propelling the man even further back. He was winning now; Robin could almost taste the victory as he meticulously worked Langley closer to the edge step-by-step.

Without warning, Langley dropped to one knee, bringing his sword across in one short motion. Unprepared for the sudden change Robin was caught off-guard. The blade caught him on the arm, dealing its own superficial wound to him. Even as Robin was trying to recover, Langley brought the sword again, digging the hilt into his side, just above his wound.

It stole the air from his lungs, dropping him to the sand, almost on top of Langley. The man had let go of his sword, choosing instead his fists as struck out. Hands dug into the fabric of Robin's armor, pushing him back flat on the sand. Robin kneed him harshly, kicking him off as he answered with a punch of his own. He was bringing his fist back for a second time when someone caught his arm, and in the span of a moment he was hauled off the other.

There was chaos about him now, Langley briefly obscured from his vision by the mass of people that were intervening. The spectators were now between them, propelling the two opponents apart with various shouts. At the forefront of the group that held Robin back was Mathew, and Robin could hear the man cursing in his ear. He hardly paid any heed, instead his gaze focused on Langley who was now a good few feet away.

There were more men holding Langley back, leaving only a few to restrain Robin who had calmed considerably, hardly resisting as he was pulled away. His attention was only drawn away from Langley as Mathew stepped in front of him, one hand still holding to his shirt firmly.

"You're a fool, Robin. What, pray tell, are you trying to do?"

"I almost had him," he argued back angrily. He was furious the others had intervened. Giving a few more minutes, and he would have bested Langley. Why had they stopped them?

"I saw the look in your eyes," Mathew hissed, pushing him back even further. "This was no small sparring match for you, was it?"

"I could have beaten him," Robin argued further.

"You could have killed him; or he you, whatever had come first. We are members of the King's Private Guard. We do not quarrel with one another!"

He wanted to protest, but kept quiet as he was led further away. Much was calling to him from somewhere in the chaos, pushing through the mass of bodies to reach him. There was stark panic on his face, fading away as he took Robin in. Near him Mathew let out a sigh, shaking his head as he turned away. Much was quick in taking the man's place.

"Where have you been?" Robin snapped testily, his gaze searching the crowd for any sign of Langley.

"With…the other squires," Much breathed heavily, watching him. "What have you been doing? You're bleeding…"

Robin reached up hastily to wipe his nose, wincing as he saw the blood. Langley had landed a fair blow, and Robin wondered mildly if he had managed the same in return. He would find out soon enough, he reasoned, and he was right. The spectators weren't the only ones who had seen the commotion. He could feel his stomach turn, his heart quicken as he saw the king watching from above.

Robin could see the king turn to the man near him, Daniel, and whisper something into his ear. The other crusader nodded, and started off, moving into the fray of the chaos. Robin wanted nothing more than to turn and leave, to be out of there. But he stayed where he was, Much by his side until the crusader had found him.

"Then king wishes to you see right away."

Robin only nodded, already knowing that what would follow would not be pleasant. He waited until Daniel had left, most likely to fetch Langley as well, before he moved. Much started to follow, but Robin stopped him with the shake of his head. Much had no part in this, and so he would not share the same burden.

"I'll meet you back at the tent," he muttered quietly, retrieving his sword that had been forgotten on the ground. Sliding it into its scabbard he set off, head down as he made the long climb.

* * *

It was easy to believe that he looked quite like Langley. Parts of the man's face were bruised, turning an odd hue of blue. His lip was split, his chin covered in dried blood. He, like Robin, knelt on one knee on the floor the king's tent, his head slightly bowed.

Robin turned away from him, eyes flicking up to where the king paced slowly in the tent. They had been here for several minutes, and the king had yet to say anything. Robin wasn't sure if he enjoyed the silence more than he would a lecture. Not to mention that kneeling like this was starting to take a toll on his body.

Now that he had been given time to calm down, the aches and pains of his doings were becoming all too clear. It was his entire torso that ached, no doubt from the repeated blows dealt by Langley. Each breath he drew was increasing the mild throb all the more, making him feel as though he was short of breath. His head was swimming too; whether that was from timely blows as well, or the excursion in the sun, he couldn't be sure.

In front of him the king let out a sigh as he sat, meeting his gaze briefly. Robin turned away, letting his gaze drop to the floor.

"Correct me if I am wrong," the king started patiently. "But are not the two of you grown men? Are you not both crusaders, warriors of my private guard? Am I wrong in assuming this?"

"No, your majesty," Robin replied quietly when Langley failed to answer. "You are correct."

"Do you think your behavior is in agreement with this honor?"

Once again, it was Robin that answered. Perhaps Langley was too proud to say otherwise, or perhaps he was wise enough to know when to keep his mouth shut. It was a lesson Robin was still trying to learn.

"I could dispatch the pair of you for insubordination," the king continued after a moment. Robin, along with Langley looked up sharply, both of them silent despite the obvious shock. "But I won't. I value both of you far too much."

There was a relieved sigh that was shared between them, but Robin couldn't help but feel a little miffed. Most of this was Langley's doing, and he felt as though he did not merit the same punishment as the other. But this was neither the time, nor was it his place, to point this out to the King of England.

"That does not mean, however, that I have forgotten this incident," the man continued, his voice sharper than ever. Robin had seen the king angry before, but this was the first time that the anger had been directed at him.

"I have convinced myself that this is what it was. Prove me wrong, and I will dismiss the both of you without question. England needs warriors who will fight the enemy, not each other, and personal disputes are one thing I will not allow within my guard. Do I make myself clear?"

Robin muttered a confirmation in time with Langley. It was humiliating, never having been truly lectured before, and it had to be happening in front of none other than a man he was at odds with. Despite the fact that Langley was receiving the same belittlement, Robin was certain that he would somehow use it to his advantage. What made it worse was the knowledge that he would not be able to retaliate. If the king got even the faintest whisper of trouble brewed between them, they would both suffer the demeaning consequences. Robin could think of no worse fate than to be dismissed due to insubordination.

"I will trust that the both of you can work out whatever disagreement is between you as knowledgeable men, as opposed to bloodthirsty warriors. Do not forsake my generosity in this decision. You may go."

Robin bowed in much the same manner as Langley, moving to get to his feet. He had hardly moved though when the king shook his head. "Robin, stay. I wish to speak to you in private."

Robin nodded mutely, doing his best to ignore the smirk Langley dared to shoot him before he had left. Once alone, he could feel his stomach tighten with worry, a collection of thoughts racing through his head. Normally he took no worry when the king spoke with him, as the man often did, but Robin knew that he was still angry. He was in no mood for another lecture, but Robin could hardly say so.

"Out of all people, Robin, I figured you would have known better."

So it was to be another lecture. He ground his teeth to keep from answering anything foolish.

"Tell me, what exactly were you hoping to accomplish?"

"Men spar all the time. That is nothing out of the ordinary," Robin answered bleakly.

"Spar, yes. What I saw was no sparring. What happened?"

"He challenged me. I had to prove myself."

"For the love of God, Robin!" the king's voice was sharp, causing Robin to wince inwardly. "You are an expert marksman, not to mention deadly with a sword. There is nothing you have to prove, to anyone."

How he wished that was only true. Langley had not challenged him openly, no, but it was something Robin had seen in the man's eyes well enough. Nothing had changed, he knew. Langley would still goad him, even more so since the match had not been finished. That had been beyond Robin's control, but he knew that the other man would still try and pin it on him.

"The Saracen attack came without warning; I know that frustrates you. I also know that you blame yourself, for whatever reason I cannot fathom. Whatever the case, I am quite sure that you can find something more constructive to do with your free time than attempting to slice up our own men into ribbons!"

There were times he hated being close to the king, and one of those times was now. Robin felt as though he were an open book that the man was flipping through. Nothing was said between the pair for a moment, but then the king let out a sigh.

"You are a fine warrior, Robin. One of the best I've ever seen. And you are a good man. But you need to use the common sense that God gave you."

"I will try, your majesty," he answered quietly. He wasn't quite sure on how to take the last comment, if it had been said with admiration or subtle derision. Either of them would have been possible, for the king's voice really hadn't changed.

"Robin…" there was another sigh, as though the man was irritated. "Stand up."

He did as he was bade, grateful for the change in posture, meeting the king's gaze when he was requested. The man had a quizzical expression on his face, as though he was considering something. Finally he shook his head. "What am I going to do with you?"

Robin did not have an answer, but he suspected the question was rhetorical. He stood there, hands dangling at his sides as he resisted the urge to wipe free the sweat that still lingered on his brow. The same, strange lightheadedness had returned, and he blinked quickly to try and chase it away. The heat was starting to play tricks with his mind.

"Have you slept?"

The question was unexpected, and it took Robin a moment before he answered. "Yes."

The king nodded thoughtfully, another breath of silence before he spoke again, his words slower this time. "Are you lying to me?"

"I _have _slept," Robin responded obdurately.

"But not enough."

Robin let out a sigh, turning his gaze away. It did not detour the king, however, the man continuing as though nothing had even happened.

"I leave at dawn, tomorrow. I must know that I can trust you to lead the others when it is time. Can I trust you?"

Robin let out a single nod, remaining silent. He was still not happy with the decision, but he could not change it.

"It is not a punishment, Robin. Despite what you may think. In time I hope you come to realize that. For now, take leave, get some rest."

Robin did not need a second invitation. He left with a bow, frowning as he came to a stop outside of the tent. Much watched him with concern, hurrying to his side as Robin resumed his pace once more.

"I thought I told you to meet me back at the tent."

"This is _a _tent," Much stressed quietly. "You never said exactly what tent to meet you at. What happened?"

"Nothing. And you know what I meant," Robin chastised him.

"What do you mean nothing? You were in there for a long time for nothing to have happened."

"The king wanted a spot of tea," Robin muttered sarcastically, ducking into the comfort of his own tent. Despite how he felt currently, it was a relief to be back here.

"Really?"

"No," he huffed, taking off his sword belt. Much had seen part of what had happened. He couldn't possibly be that dense as to have no clue as to what had taken place. Yet the man still stood there, waiting expectantly. Robin rolled his eyes.

"Do not worry about it. It is of my own concern."

He moved to take his shirt off, wincing as he did so. His skin was slick with sweat, and Robin glanced down at his side. Much was watching as well, the man wincing as he saw it for himself.

"That looks bad. Does it hurt?"

"Reasonably," he responded. His fingers touched the edges around it, wiping away a bit of blood that had come from a broken stitch. It was no surprise; Langley had landed a good blow.

"We should clean it."

The prospect didn't sound promising, but even Robin could not deny that it was not doing as well as it should. He nodded dimly, easing himself down on the bed. A sudden wave of weariness washed over him just then, and he fought off a yawn, running a hand along his worn face. It was still in the early evening, but Robin doubted the extra sleep would do him any harm.

"Shall I get the physician?"

"Do not bother him. I will go in the morning."

"Master…surely…" Much was shaking his head, but Robin cut him off.

"The king departs at first light; I wish to be awake by then, so that I may see him off. I promise, once he has, I will. For now, let me rest. Wake me in the morning."

Much opened his mouth to say something, but closed it only moments after, realizing that the discussion was at an end. Robin knew that it would be easier to have it cleaned tonight, but his side was still tender from the earlier brawl, and he didn't much like the thought of having it handled none too carefully so soon after. The pain would subside through the night, and after he was able to get some proper rest, he would be able to withstand the discomfort better.

Despite the heat, he reached for the blanket that he had discarded that morning. He felt strangely cold, even though sweat still beaded on his brow, and he took care to wrap himself up securely. His side still throbbed, but in even times with his breath, and it wasn't long before he faded into a restless sleep.

**TBC**


	4. Fever

**Sorry about the delay. Thanks to all of those who are reading and leaving your thoughts! **

**Thanks goes to Kegel for the beta**

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**Chapter Four: **Fever

He was cold. Downright freezing. Partway through the night he had dressed in another layer, taken another blanket that had been forgotten somewhere in the corner of the tent. Even then he still shivered. Sleep itself never really came, his chest so tight it almost hurt to breathe. But he did breathe, each breath drying his mouth out all the more, leaving his throat parched. By then he could not muster up the courage to even try and sit, let alone stand.

Robin longed to wake Much, to plead with the man to bring him something to drink, but the hushed snores refrained him from doing so. He didn't want to wake the man, and send him into a worry, which he surely would. Besides, Robin was doubtful he could make his voice loud enough to even be heard.

So he said nothing, silently wishing away the pain and longing for morning when the man would finally wake. He was so worn, but each time he closed his eyes he could feel the ground shift beneath him, as though threatening to throw him from the bed, and twice he had almost grown ill. So instead he distracted himself, counting the seconds that passed on by, watching with a fatigued expression as the first hints of morning approached.

Outside he could hear the first signs of life, could hear the other men working to break down the temporary tents they called home. Why had Much not waken yet? He wanted to glance at the other, to see if there were any signs of the man doing so, but Robin did not want to risk moving. He could not recall ever feeling quite this poorly before.

There was no need; he could hear Much shift behind him, the mumbling of words that had no real coherent meaning as the squire slowly woke. Normally he was amused by this, but today, Robin could not even bring himself to smile. When Much first called his name, Robin couldn't respond. He had tried, but nothing had passed his lips but a small almost squeak-like response.

Trying to clear his throat brought only a coarse cough that wracked his ribs with a stinging pain. It was enough to catch Much's attention though, his squire by his side almost instantly. In the dim light, Robin could see the concern on the other man's face, and he tried to mask his real hurts as well as he could.

"Master? What's wrong?"

"Water," Robin breathed, barely able to get the word out. It took more effort than he had first thought, and it left him dimly surprised. At first it seemed as though Much hadn't heard, or if he had, didn't understand. The man stood there, staring back at him with worry clearly marking his features. Suddenly he shook his head, answering with a question.

"You want water?"

It was all Robin could do to nod, closing his eyes against the dizzying sensation. It was only for a short moment, as he could feel the same strange dizziness returning. Yet when he opened them again, Much was gone, his tent empty. He would get some water, maybe some food. Then if he slept…he would be fine. Wouldn't he?"

The flap was drawn back the next moment, Robin briefly surprised that Much had returned so suddenly. He wouldn't complain about it, grateful that the one time Much had chosen to be overly prompt was the one time he had desperately wished for him to be so. But it wasn't Much…

Robin closed his eyes as Mathew came in closer, cursing himself inwardly. He would berate Much for it later; he had specifically said water, and nothing about fetching any of the others. He couldn't keep his eyes closed for long, opening them to find Mathew watching him closely. The same concern was on his face as had been Much's. He turned his gaze away.

"Robin?" the man kept his voice low, raising it only when Robin didn't respond. The hand that rested on his brow was cold, and he shivered at the touch, trying to pull away.

"You're warm…"

Warm? He was freezing. Robin tried to tell him that, his words instead turning into a harsh couple of coughs. The hand left his forehead, but Mathew remained, easing himself down so that he was sitting on the bed near him. Robin let out a mild groan as the coughs died down, wishing for nothing more than the pain to leave.

"Easy," Mathew spoke to him quietly, his voice solid and unwavering. "Slow breaths, you'll be fine."

Light filled the inside of the tent then, so bright that Robin squeezed his eyes shut to fight against the sudden headache. He could hear the ends of the torches being dug into the sand, and a moment later a pair of new hands found their way against his cheeks. When Robin opened his eyes he was surprised, and slightly miffed to see one of the physicians before him. Much really would not hear the end of it for causing all this commotion. By now the entire encampment would have heard that he was too weak to even sit, and the humiliating thought burned in his cheeks.

"He's burning with fever," the physician announced plainly, pulling away. "You were wounded, no?"

Robin managed a single nod, but it was Mathew who answered for him. "Saracen blade, in his side."

"I'll need to see the wound."

He suppressed the mildest of groans. He knew what that entailed, but he wasn't looking forward to moving. He noticed Much had returned by now, a flask in hand, but Mathew called the man over and it was forgotten for now. Robin was shivering as the blankets were drawn back, wincing as the pair helped him to sit. He felt so lightheaded then, spots dancing before his eyes as he tried to will away the sickly feeling that was building up inside of him.

Though he didn't really help, there wasn't any resistance on his part as both Much and Mathew worked to pull the clothes over his head. The air around him felt increasingly cold once they had finished, Robin shivering fervently as he was eased back down on the bed. He caught Mathew's gaze then, already knowing what was behind the look. There was no need to look at the wound himself; he knew how bad it had become.

Throughout the night the ache in his side had grown. It had slowly heated, until the point that it felt as though it was on fire. In fact, it was the only part of him that was warm. It would hurt to clean, he knew, but it had to be done. Much came stumbling up near to where Mathew sat, offering up the flask, but the man shook his head.

"Wine," Mathew instructed, his voice still the same level of calm it had been when he had first spoken to Robin.

"No wine," the physician cut in suddenly.

"But the pain…"

"Wine will only feed the fever. We must cool him down; water, and slowly. It'll do no one any good if he can't hold it down."

Mathew was silent for a moment, taking the flask only when Much had offered it once again. Robin let out a groan as the other crusader worked an arm under his shoulders, helping him to sit up enough to where he could drink. The water was cold from having been stored outside throughout the night, and it eased the pain in his throat. They were only small sips, enough to wet his tongue and swallow what was left, but hardly any more than that.

The flask was pulled away then, and Robin could see why. The physician had finished prepping, and was ready. Mathew moved out of the way, sitting down on the other side of the bed, catching Robin's gaze.

"It will be better if you do not watch," the man warned him. It was all the warning he got.

He knew that it would hurt. Had known it ever since the fire had first started to burn in his side. But foolishly he hadn't expected it to be this bad. He couldn't even stop himself from crying out as the cloth was drawn along the wound, the stitching catching in some places and pulling the tender area. Robin's only consolation was Mathew, who had taken his hand with his own, squeezing in an attempt to distract him from the current situation.

He held his breath as it continued, letting it go only during the times the physician went to rewet his cloth. The man wasn't attempting to cause unnecessary anguish, Robin knew, but it felt as though he was. Each deliberate stroke of the cloth, the pulling of the skin, sent a streak of pain up his side and into his chest, stealing away what little air he had.

Mathew was patient with him, talking constantly, Robin focusing on his voice in an attempt to distract himself. He must have, at one point, passed out, because they had been cleaning his wound one moment, then he felt himself being moved, lifted back up so that he was sitting. Through clouded vision he could see there were others in his tent now, including the king himself. He had never been aware that the man had come in the first place.

He was shaking still, this time from the pain. He no longer felt cold, instead the same fury that burned in his side was now working his way through the rest of his body, and he was sweating. Fresh cloth was fetched for him, both Much and Mathew working together again to ease it over his head before Robin was laid back down.

Water was offered to him again, but Robin rejected it, unsure of if he could even swallow let alone keep anything down. But Mathew was insistent, his voice unwavering as he persisted. Robin finally gave in, allowing the small sips of water, trying to will his stomach to stay calm.

"He will live."

It was the king who had spoken, the words more of a statement, as they always seemed to be. Robin wasn't sure if he had wanted to hear the answer or not. Fevers killed, there was no secret about that. But the physician's voice was unchanged, as though the question held no real importance.

"The fever's just starting to take hold. He will get worse before he gets better, if his body is strong enough. He needs rest, water, food, in that order. If he keeps water down, give him this."

Mathew reached over where he lay listening, fetching a cup that was passed his way. The man brought it to his nose, his face tightening as he smelled it. "What is it?"

"It may help to break the fever," the man responded, packing up his stuff. "But it won't do any good if he can't keep it down," he warned.

Mathew nodded, seeming to understand the importance of it as he set the cup aside. Robin was grateful; the water was not agreeing with his stomach, and he wasn't certain if he could take anything else. He had hardly moved from where they last had him, eyes half-closed as he fought off the impending sleep. The others were still there, he could hear them talking, but couldn't understand what they were saying. Part of him wondered that if he were to give in now, if he would ever wake again.

Yet for once in his life, Robin did not care.

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He slept. It was a restless slumber, filled with burning fever, and uncontrollable chills. He was dimly aware of the times that he was awake, coherent enough to take in water, as well as some sort of bitter-tasting broth that was most likely the leftovers from a stew. His wound had been cleaned several times as well, the pain sharp enough to wake him only momentarily, falling back into a senseless state before the fresh dressing was even applied.

It was morning again when he next woke, a dim realization that he must have slept not only through the remainder of the day, but the night as well. Both the fever and the chills were gone, but in their place was pure exhaustion, as though the sleep he taken in had done him little good. Already the heat of the day was sweeping into the tent, and the blankets that were draped over him were making him warm. Still, it was a minor discomfort compared to how he had felt previously, and so he disregarded it. It was also then he realized that he was hungry. That was a feeling he hadn't had since before he was wounded. It was a promising sign.

Everything that had happened felt more like a dream than reality. The stitching on his side told him differently. There was still pain there, but it was different from what he had felt earlier. More of a dull burn, a growing itch, and it took a lot of reserve to stop himself from scratching. Pain was the one memory that had stuck with him quite well, and he was in no hurry to experience it again. And as worn as he was, he knew that he would eventually have to get up and move. He could not lie here forever.

Slowly Robin moved from his side to his back, easing himself into a sitting position. It made him dizzy, so he wasn't certain if the voice he heard was real, or his muddled head getting the best of him. He knew it was real when the hands landed on his shoulders, helping him.

"Master! You're awake, are you well? Is there something you need? Shall I fetch the physician?"

The questions all came at once, pouring out into one jumbled mess that Robin could hardly understand. Sleep was still pulling at him, weighing him down, and his head still fuzzy from the sudden move. Still, he couldn't help but smile. Much would do the impossible if Robin simply asked. Still he shook his head, waving the man off.

"I am better," he stated simply. That, in itself, was the truth. He was not quite as well as he had hoped, but he was better.

"Surely there is something I can do," Much pressed. It was strange watching him, the man looking so worn and disheveled as though he was the one who had been ill, and not him. Robin turned away from his gaze, a little unnerved by what he saw there.

"I am a little hungry," he admitted quietly, more to himself than anyone else. Much nodded, letting out a heavy breath.

"Right then…food. I'll get you some food."

He left quickly, almost in a run, Robin letting out a sigh as he dropped his head into his hands. He shouldn't feel this tired, not after having slept for so long. There had been days where he had pushed himself to the brink, and kept on going without feeling the fatigue. Now it seemed to be all he felt, despite the fact he had done nothing.

There was a change of light, the flap catching in the wind and Robin glanced up, meeting the gaze of the other man. For a moment there was silence, but then the other let out a sigh, coming further into the tent.

"You're awake."

Robin nodded even though it wasn't a question. "And hungry."

Mathew watched him for a moment, then smiled. "Your squire's gone to get you something to eat then, I'll assume?"

"He has," Robin answered, mildly hoping that the man would bring back something more substantial than watered-down broth. That would hardly do anything to appease his flustered stomach.

"It's the first time in days he's left the tent; I figured something must have happened. It is a relief to see you awake."

That statement caught him off-guard. It didn't make any sense. "Days?"

Mathew let out a sigh as he sat down on the end of the bed, Robin crossing his legs under him in order to give the man some room. "You've been with fever, Robin."

"Yes," he agreed. He knew that. "Only the day before…"

"You were not well," Mathew cut him off. There was something in the man's tone that caught his attention. Robin swallowed.

"How long?"

"You took the fever Monday night; it is now Saturday."

He felt ill, absorbing the information as though it was more of a story than the truth. It couldn't be right, for that would mean…

"Your fever broke on the third day, early morning. You've been sleeping since."

"Five days?" he questioned wearily. Had it really been five days? His gaze lifted briefly as Much returned, passing along to him a bowl. It was some sort of stew, as he figured, but the disappointment was lost on him, his mind still confused by what had just been revealed.

"I would bring you something…different, but it is all that we have," Much apologized hesitantly after Robin failed to say anything. "The rest of the supplies were taken with the king."

"The king?" Robin ignored the apology. "He-"

"The king has gone south," Mathew nodded towards him.

"You did not go with?"

"There are still a few here recovering; I will lead them and rejoin with King Richard soon enough."

So, the king had found another to take his place. It was easy for Robin to admit that he never wanted the task in the first place, but there was the smallest twinge of resentment that he had been replaced so easily. Now he would be one of those who would have to be led, instead of leading himself. He let out a sigh, scooping some of the liquid in the spoon and bringing it to his lips.

"The king did leave you with this," Mathew started, breaking the momentarily silence. The man reached into his jerkin, pulling free a small square of parchment. Robin could see that it was well worn, despite the fact that it should be virtually untouched. The smallest of smiles graced his lips.

"What did it say?"

"The letter is addressed to you, Robin of Locksley," Mathew answered sternly, holding the parchment out to him.

"I am aware of that," Robin nodded. "What does it say?"

Mathew let his hand drop, fingers still clutching the parchment. "You mean to imply that I would read a letter addressed to a fellow comrade from the king himself?"

"If the king had left me a letter, then he would have given it to my squire," Robin explained, glancing towards where Much sat in the corner. The man shuffled under the glare, reddening slightly. "And my squire, as God knows, cannot grasp the concept that some things are for my eyes, and my eyes alone. Since I was not able to read it for him, he would have found someone else, which would explain why you have it, and not he."

"Water," Much spoke hastily, scrambling towards the door. "I'll get you more water."

Mathew laughed. "You know it is because he cares."

"Yes," Robin stated bitterly, taking another spoonful of stew. "Curse my luck that I happen to be the only man stuck with a squire that cares too much."

"Is that really a curse?" Mathew wondered.

With a sigh, Robin shook his head. No, it was not. Much was more than just a simple squire. He was a friend. "He means well," he finally said with a bitter sigh. "So tell me, what does the letter say?"

"Mostly that the king wishes you well, and requests for you to return home."

"What?"

He glanced up from where he sat, baffled by the statement. Hurriedly he snatched the parchment from the man's hand, opening to read it himself. There had to be some sort of misunderstanding…

"Robin…" Mathew started, but Robin wasn't paying the man any heed. Instead his eyes were skimming the parchment, picking up words rather than meaning, until they spied what he was looking for.

_I release you from my servitude._

Six words…his entire world was changing with six words. Robin wasn't certain if he should be upset, or elated at the finding. War had been his life for the past five years and for a time he never thought he would see home again. Now his chance was here, yet Robin could not bring himself to fully accept the news.

"I will stay behind long enough to see you off," Mathew explained quietly. "The king was most anxious to hear news on your recovery."

So it was for more than one reason Mathew had stayed behind. Robin let out a sigh, suddenly no longer hungry, but very worn, both physically and emotionally. It was not a punishment, he knew, the letter stated that quite clearly, but still Robin felt as though he had been cheated. What honor was there in going home when all of your comrades continued on?

"You should get some rest," Mathew distracted him from his thoughts, collecting the half-empty bowl of stew from his hold.

That was all that was said before the man left, leaving Robin to ponder over his situation. The letter was still clutched in one hand, his thoughts racing. He had been with ill for near a weak, and even now he could feel how weak his body still was. Perhaps after all that had happened, after all the fighting he had done, perhaps it was time to go home.

The only question that remained was what would be in store for him upon his return.

**TBC**


	5. Servitude

**Long wait, but it is done. Thanks to Kegel for her beta :)**

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**Chapter Five: Servitude **

"You leave in the morning?"

"Yes," the man answered. "And so should you."

"You mean to say that you will not stay and make sure I go?"

"I am trusting that you will; although some say that I should not."

Robin raised an eyebrow, watching the other man. "Who says?"

"That's none of your business, Robin," Mathew cautioned him. "It is of little matter anyways. If you do stay, then the king will have your head, and probably mine as well."

He grinned at that. Robin had an inkling suspicion that the mere reason Mathew had tarried here for so long was indeed to ensure his departure. Even now Robin still held the idea of sneaking along, of rejoining with others in the south. After all, what was the king to say when he was already there, ready and willing to still serve?

"No, Robin."

"I didn't say anything," he protested with a soft chuckle.

"I know that look. You are going home. Tomorrow."

"If I am well enough to travel home, then I am well enough to travel south."

"They are not my orders. They are the king's."

That much was true. Robin didn't need to reach with his fingers to feel the folds of parchment beneath his jerkin. It was there he had kept it for the last few days, not wanting for it to become lost in the confusion of packing. There were little possessions he held, most having been left behind at home before coming, and the remainders being lost during war. It left him feeling empty; as though he had given everything and gained nothing in return.

"You are lucky that you even get to go home," Much announced himself as he sat. "You could be dead."

"That would make going home a little hard, now wouldn't it?" Robin questioned sarcastically, earning a scowl from the man in return.

"You know what I mean."

He knew. It was just something that he preferred to not think about. It made things all the more infuriating. If he had taken a more grievous hurt, one that had left him unable to wield a sword or a bow properly, then it would be easier to accept the fact that he was to return. It would be difficult to explain to others about his return when the war still raged on. Some would trust his word, others, he had a feeling, would disregard it. Men ran away from war all the time, hiding their true deeds behind false words.

"Is there someone waiting for you back home?" Mathew broke through his thoughts momentarily. Robin held his gaze for a short time before shaking his head. No, there would be no one waiting for him. Thornton would probably be grateful to see him, as would his other serfs, but Robin knew that was not what Mathew had been referring to.

"That's not true," Much protested.

"Leave it," Robin warned, doing his best to ignore the inquiring look Mathew had given him.

"What about Marian?"

"Marian?"

Robin let out a sigh, glaring at the man. Much held his gaze for a few seconds, before turning away. He had not spoken to anyone about her. He had even gone as far as informing Much to never bring her up. How foolish of a notion that had been.

It would be a lie to say he had not thought of Marian. She was on his mind constantly, and even in the midst of battle, when men were screaming, and the smell of blood and death was overwhelming, she was there. Somewhere, far back in the depths of his mind, encouraging him, keeping him sane. And at nights he dreamt of her, and he could hear her voice, could hear her calling him a fool.

When he had left her they had been betrothed. That betrothal no longer held. It had been far too long, and he _had _been a fool to come here. But he would be more of a fool to return and expect that things had not changed. He had his honor, he had his glory…but it meant little when he had nothing to show for it. Perhaps that was why he was so reluctant to return. Not because he craved the war, but instead an escape for what he knew would await him, or in this case, what wouldn't await him.

"Who is she?"

Mathew would wonder. Of course he wondered, now thanks to Much who had broken his promise. The man still would not meet his gaze, eyes averted and interested in toying with the sheath on his sword. Robin let out a sigh, biting his lip.

"She is no one."

"You're going to marry her," Much stated in an almost song-like tone, his voice barely above a whisper. Robin glared at him.

"So someone is waiting for you?" Mathew smiled, seemingly enjoying how the conversation was going.

"No," Robin shook his head again. There would be no use in trying to pretend otherwise. "It has been almost five years since I have last seen her. It will be more than that when we do meet again. By now she has found another, and surely she has married. The sheriff's daughter is not someone who goes unnoticed, after all."

"The sheriff's daughter? You do have fine taste, don't you?"

Robin could only shrug, already knowing it was not her position that had caught his attention. While it was true that most men were interested in her because of Edward's power, Robin had been fond of her even before then, when she had been nothing more than a little girl. They had used to play together in the woods behind Locksley, and at times would sneak off with one another when they were supposed to be home and asleep in their beds.

After a time, of course, Edward had brought her to Nottingham, to the castle, in order to learn how to be a _proper _lady. There she had suitors, lords and nobles alike, who had attempted to catch her hand in marriage. The only time her smile had been sincere when he had asked her himself. How Edward took to it, Robin could not know for sure. The man was wise, and kind, but fiercely protective of his daughter. Yet if he had disproved, he had never openly shown it. None of that mattered anymore. That time was long ago, and this was now.

"Master, surely she wouldn't have married someone else," Much protested.

"A fine young maiden like her would not go long without a suitor," Robin told him, his voice a degree softer than what it had been before. Much, he knew, was only saying what he believed to be true. But the man had not the experience of the world like Robin did. He could not understand how things worked, caught instead in a dreamland where things happened the way he wished them to because of love and fairytales. That might work well enough for him, but not for Robin. It was not how the world worked, despite how pleasant it all seemed.

"You may be surprised," Mathew encouraged him. Robin knew that Mathew had a wife, and briefly wondered if he thought of her as often as Robin thought of Marian. At least Mathew knew what would await him when he returned from war.

"We should turn in for the night though. All of us have a long journey ahead, and we could all use the rest."

Their journey would be longer, Robin knew. For Mathew it would be but a few days, perhaps a week but no longer. There was no telling for them. Robin had spent the last days reading maps while he recovered, tracing which path would be the easiest. There was a port, several days north of where they were, where the locale were friendly, and bartering passage would be easy enough. It would mean for a long sea passage; something that Much would not care for, but it was safer than trying to cross the unknown lands alone and on foot.

He moved reluctantly, as the fire was doused, taking the lead back to the small tent that still stood. Before it had been one of many, and now it stood alone, like a ghostly figure in the midst of a graveyard. Robin did not care to remain here, still on edge from the attack and feeling as though another would happen. But the days had brought nothing, the nights quiet and uneventful. If there was trouble, then it was not here.

"It'll be good," Much commented warmly once they were inside.

"What will?"

"Being back home. Back in England. I miss England, miss having a real roof over my head, real food in my belly, being able to go outside without being burnt, or having to wipe sand from my face, and hair, and everywhere else it goes."

"No, instead you'll have rain, and dirt, and mice," Robin commented, pulling off his belt. He still kept his sword with him, as he always did. He did not stop being a warrior simply because he was being sent home.

"I don't mind the rain," Much shrugged, preparing his bed. "I'd rather have a lot of little rain, than a lot of rain at once. And dirt is easier to get rid of; I don't like the feel of sand, it being all gritty and everything."

"And what about the mice?" Robin wondered.

"I don't like mice," he answered after a moment, lying down. "And there are still mice here, in the markets, and villages…I'd rather have them in England than here."

Robin couldn't help but smile. There were things he missed too. Others he could hardly remember, his mind lost in this new world he had entered years ago. Much had somehow managed to retain his child-like innocence, despite the fact that he had slain just as many men, and had witnessed the same horrors. Secretly Robin envied him, wondering how the man was able to do such a simple thing while he was not.

He watched as Much slept, seeing how easy the other was able to rest. There were no signs of nightmares, of terrors that plagued him. And every morning Much was bright and cheery like he always was. Robin had to muster that sort of amenity up each time he woke. He closed his eyes, trying to push the thoughts from his head. It would do no good to be bitter about the situation. Instead he should be glad, grateful that his friend did not suffer from the same ill fate as he.

Robin let out a sigh, reaching inside his tunic to pull free the bit of parchment. The light from the candles had not yet been extinguished, growing brighter in the night as the daylight faded. Even so, he could barely see the words. That was of little matter. He had read them often enough that he already knew them by heart.

_Robin of Locksley, _

_It will bring to me great confidence to learn that you have read my words. Affairs here are far from over and require immediate attention on my part. Your service to me has been invaluable, and you have my many thanks in all the deeds you have done. Yet the recent events have caused me to realize the losses I may yet endure, and so therefore have come to make a decision that was not made lightly on my part. _

_It is my hope that England's air will restore you to full health. I release you from my servitude, and bade nothing further of you. Upon my return to England, it is my wish to see you well. I part ways and give with you the highest honours one can give: my undying gratitude. _

_God speed until we meet again, _

_King Richard, Lionheart _

There were no indications of ill-remorse, anger or resentment, only that of fond memories, as if shared by two old friends. Robin knew that the king held him in higher regard than he did other men, and it was something he cherished. Perhaps that was the reason he felt so put off. It almost felt as though he was abandoning the man, the King of England, to a fate that could not end well.

Robin held his breath. He had seen the king fight, had seen the others fight. The Private Guard was full of skilled fighters, and more would arrive in passing time. The king had made it thus far; surely he would see it to the end. Talks of peace could be brought about once more, and from there, who knew what would happen? Perhaps the king would be home sooner than expected.

Robin ran his fingers over the parchment, rereading it another time, as if the words would magically change and bade him something different. Out of all that was said, there was only one line that kept catching his eyes, as if some hidden knowledge or secret was behind it. _I release you from my servitude._

It would do him no good to ponder over it now. Deftly he folded it back up, slipping it inside of his pocket. The last of his comrades, friends he had made, were leaving in the opposite direction come first light. The chances of ever seeing them again were slim; if they were lucky enough to make it back to English soil it was unlikely their paths would cross through Nottinghamshire none the less Locksley itself.

Much would be there. The thought warmed his heart as he glanced at his sleeping companion. Much had been there for him many of times. Yet how many times had he done the same for Much? The man had left his home, had followed him across the seas onto a new land, where he killed his first man. Where they both had killed…

It should not have been asked of him. That much Robin knew. Before they had set off, Robin was naïve as to how war truly was. Men boasted about it in taverns, in the ports where they collected before shipping off. There were competitions, each man bellowing out even louder than the one before about what he knew, and what he could do. Some had held up their promises, others had fallen shortly to their deaths.

Somehow they had managed to survive, he and Much. And now they were going home. It was a good thing, he decided after a moment. Perhaps it would ease his own restlessness, but even more so for Much. The man deserved something better than what had been offered to him. Robin smiled at the thought.

He could give him something better. The man had never asked for anything more than enough food to fill his belly and a warm bed to sleep in, and even that had been sparse as of late. But there was no need on his part to ask; Robin already had in his mind of what he would do come the morning. And now he, like Much, couldn't wait for morning to arrive.

* * *

The others were already gone by the time they awoke. Much, he suspected, had been awake for some time, the man perkier now than he normally was. Or perhaps it was because of the simple notion that they were headed back to England. Robin couldn't help but smile though, even putting up with the man's singing for a time until the man hit a particularly sour note.

"You know we won't be home for some time yet," Robin pointed out, hoping to put a damper on the singing part. They would try to barter passage at the port; whether they did or not made no difference in the length of their journey. It would still be several months before they were on familiar soil. They would, he knew, have to eventually gain passage on a ship. That was a time he was not looking forward to. He could handle the waves well enough, but it made Much queasy, which only made things all the more miserable for him.

"I am well aware of that, thank you very much," Much answered in a crisp tone. He was already dressed, had eaten, possibly shaved too, Robin couldn't tell. It made him smile; Much was as eager to go home as Robin had been to first come to war. How different they were, and yet, they were quite the same. Almost the same…

Robin pursed his lips, letting out a sigh. He had been pondering over this since waking, had even dreamt about it some during the night. Already his heart was beating a little faster, and Robin could feel his hands grow clammy as he wiped them on his leggings. Never before had he been nervous like this, not when he was around Much. There was no pretending around the man, he never had to explain himself or act as though nothing was wrong. How did you approach someone with something of this…magnitude?

"Is there something wrong?"

Yes, there was nothing that he could hide. Already Much had sensed something, the man watching him quizzically. Robin met his gaze with a smile, ignoring the knot that was forming in his stomach. There would be no better time than now to speak of it.

"There is something I need to speak with you about."

Much was silent for a pause, then he shook his head. "Master…no. You can't be serious; you heard what Mathew said, what the king said! We are to go home. To England. The war is over. Well, not really over, I mean for us…"

"Much," Robin cut him off, chuckling nervously now. The man's tirade was doing nothing to help. He gave the man a smile, "We are going home."

"Today?"

"Today," Robin confirmed with a nod. Much let out a sigh.

"Good, I was afraid you wouldn't listen to reason…again, might I add."

That was something he wouldn't live down, Robin knew. Already Much had taken to reminding him countless of times about his earlier foolishness. Mathew had said it was his way of showing he cared, but Robin was starting to doubt that. Much enjoyed pointing out all of his faults on an occasional basis. This, he figured, was only one more.

"I want to speak with you," he motioned with his hand, his expression serious. The relief that had crossed Much's face had only lasted briefly, now replaced with worry as he did as he was bade.

"We've known each other for a long time, haven't we?"

Much nodded, "Well…yes. I suppose we have."

Robin wet his lips, hands clasped as he tried to sort out all of his words. He wasn't very good at these sorts of things, at these talks. Most of his thoughts were kept to himself, private from his fellow man. But if he was going to do this, then Much had the right to know why.

"By the time we get back to England, it will have been a little over ten years. You've been loyal, my friend, more so than what I have ever asked of you. I've never trusted, nor counted on someone as much as I do you, and for that you have my thanks."

Much said nothing, perhaps thrown off by the sudden change in topic. His face was drawn, as though he was focused on something else entirely. Robin gave him a small smile, mustering up what courage he had left. It was almost silly to say he felt relieved for what he was about to do. There was no doubt in his mind that his friend did not deserve any less.

"And for the services you have given to me, I am releasing you from my servitude."

There was a smile on Robin's face, but it did not match the expression on Much's. "What?"

"You are to be a free man," he explained further, waiting for the realization to fully sink in.

The same, perplexed look remained on Much's face for a moment, before hardening as he stood. "Have I done something wrong?"

"What do you mean?"

"Y-you say that I'm loyal, that I'm-that you trust me, then you…get rid of me? Just like that?"

"Get rid of you?" It was Robin's turn to be confused now. "Much, it is not a punishment. It is a gift."

"So you say," Much shook his head hastily. "Of course you say. It's easy for you to say," he pointed accusingly at him. "You go home, back to your-your village, your manor, to all your people. Then what am I left with? No home, no family, nothing at all? You just cast me away, forget everything that I've done?!"

"Much," Robin was on his feet, following the distraught man from the tent. He had no intention for it to end like this, and he felt guilty he had led Much on to believe that he had. It was difficult to keep up with the other. Robin hated to admit it. Though healed he was still weak, his body grown feeble from both illness and his lack of routine training.

But Much had gone no further than the edge of camp, or at least where camp used to be. It was only open desert now, hardly any indication that someone was there aside from their one small tent. Robin came to a stop near him, a hand resting on his shoulder.

"My friend," he breathed, waiting until the man turned his way. It took a few moments of silence, and even then Much refused to look at him directly. Robin took a breath.

"Did you really think that I would leave you with nothing?"

"I_ have_ nothing," Much stressed quietly. "I had you, but it's obviously clear you don't want me around anymore."

"That's not true," he corrected him. "You are a part of my life, Much. Perhaps the better part if you want to know truthfully. You're a good man, you deserve this."

"Deserve what?"

"When we return to England, your freedom is not the only thing I am granting you. The Lodge at Bonchurch, and the surrounding lands, will be yours to maintain."

"Bonchurch?" Much looked at him, skepticism crossing his features. "But only a lord can-"

Robin nodded. "Yes."

"Me?" he wondered quietly. "A lord? But…I can't. I don' t know how to take care of a lodge."

"You've taken care of me all these years."

"Yes, but that's different," he argued.

Robin smiled. "It is the same. And you'll be a fine lord, trust me."

A part of him wondered if it was enough. Bonchurch by no means was Locksley, but Robin did not have the direct authority to grant him anything else. The lodge was in the care of Locksley estate, and technically would still be under Robin's if one looked at the details, but it was the smallest of tokens he could give to someone who deserved it so.

"Right then," Much nodded after a time. They had been quiet, standing where they were, staring at nothing, both unsure of what would come next. "We should…we should get going."

Yes…they should. He had done what he had come to do, and his time in the Holy Lands was now over, another chapter of his life written. What lay in wait for him upon his return wasn't certain, but Robin had a feeling that his departure from here was not an end to everything, but rather something that had yet to even begin.

**The End**


	6. Epilouge

**Thanks to Kegel for the beta**

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**Epilogue**

With the wind in their hair, the sun on their backs, there was a joy they had not experienced in some time. Sea travel had been rough, rougher than it had been the first time, and days miserable. Arrival at Portsmouth had been a good day, for more than one reason.

Robin knew that Much was grateful to just be on land, he didn't care what land, just as long as it wasn't moving beneath his feet. The man probably wouldn't have cared if the vessel had careened off-course and landed back on Turkish land. Robin wouldn't have been surprised if that had been the case, considering how many storms they had sailed through. Even he had felt the queasiness during the journey.

They had stayed at Portsmouth long enough to eat, once the seasickness died of course. Then they had set off, heading north, relishing in the simple fact that they were almost home. Still another week to go, possibly longer, but so much closer than what they had been before. Robin could almost taste it. Apparently Much could as well.

"When I get to Bonchurch, I'll have a feast. There'll be pork, and beef…lamb even. Fish maybe…but I don't really care much for fish, have I ever told you that?"

Robin gave his companion a wry smile as he nodded. Much had told him, and had proceeded to tell him again and again as if to prove the point that he _really _didn't like fish. Robin could almost believe that Much would go as far as banning it altogether from Bonchurch if he could. It was possible, but not probable, as he was certain that food would be the one thing that would never be scarce in the lodge, no matter what it might be.

"There'll be food, and dancing, music. You're invited to come too, if you'd like," the man finished eagerly.

"But what if I want to have a feast of my own when I return?" Robin wondered, curious now. He could see Much ponder this, his face falling into a frown as he was silent.

"Then I'll miss you," he finally answered.

"Much," Robin laughed, turning to face his friend.

"I am going to have a feast the day I get there. I'll have a feast everyday, in fact. It'll be glorious, much better than whatever that stuff was we had earlier. I think the food we ate in the Holy Lands was better than that."

"You can't have a feast everyday," Robin told him, smiling at the last comment. Even Robin wasn't sure of what it was that they had eaten, but they were starved and had little money in which they could part with. Meals would have to come by trade or work for the remainder of their trek, unless they were able to beg some, but Robin wasn't that hungry yet. Perhaps he would send Much…

"Why not?"

"Why not what?"

Robin didn't want to admit he had been caught in his thoughts, but he couldn't answer a question when he wasn't even aware of what the subject was about.

"I am the Lord of Bonchurch…or will be, soon…in time," Much corrected himself feebly. "If I want a feast every night, then I will have one."

"And where will all the food come from?"

Another pause of silence. "Well, they can be small feasts then. Just some pork, or beef. Not both though; unless it's a special day, like Sunday, then we could. And some cheese, and fresh bread, a bit of fruit. It's been so long since I've last had fresh fruit. Apples, and berries, strawberries…do you think any of the strawberries are ready?"

"Much?"

The man looked at him. "Yes?"

"Stop talking. You are making me hungry."

It would last for only a short time, Robin knew. They had been playing this game ever since leaving Acre. If it was not talk about food, then it was a song, or a story that he had heard a million times before but pretended to not know just for the sake of not having to listen to silence.

"Did I ever tell you the reason why I don't like fish?"

Robin knew he would regret asking, but he wondered if he would regret not asking even more. He couldn't help the grin that crossed his face, and even though they were closer to home than before, Robin had a suspicion that it would seem a far longer journey than what it really was.

"Why?"

**-Fin-**


End file.
